


Blindsided

by VincentMeoblinn



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Disabled Character, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:45:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which something goes wrong at The Pool and John and Sherlock are left to deal with the aftermath. Happy Ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blindsided

 

 

Sherlock knew something had to be done when he found John curled up on the lino in a corner of the kitchen surrounded by glass and covered in blood. Thankfully all the cuts on his feet, hands, and arms were superficial, but the damage to his mind was not. He had lost hope, lost purpose, and most of all lost his sight. Sherlock had contacted specialists around the globe, but it all boiled down to it being very difficult to find a donor for eyes. Even Mycroft’s tout was wasted, which was all the more frustrating since Sherlock had gone out of his way to ask for help in the first place.

“He’s going to have to find a way to cope with the loss of his sight,” John’s therapist had advised Sherlock when he’d barged into one of their sessions and demanded to know why she hadn’t fixed John’s pervading depression, “You can help with this. Clean up the flat and make it safe for him to move around. Label things with the brail label maker he’s got. He’s already learned how to read most basic words. He needs _your_ support; I can’t help him if he isn’t getting help at home.”

So Sherlock had taken John’s arm and led him downstairs and into the cab with the intention of doing just that… until an experiment distracted him and he once again left John to fend for himself.

Just the fact that John allowed himself to be led around now showed just how deeply he’d sunken into this hopeless, miserable state. When they’d first gotten back from the hospital he’d stubbornly made his way around town and the flat using his white cane. In fact, he’d been so stubborn that he’d spent half the night at a park when he hadn’t been able to find his way home again. Mycroft had tracked him down on the CCTV and sent a car for him, but he’d angrily told Anthea he was enjoying the breeze and refused to budge from his bench until Sherlock arrived and told him he needed him at home.

Toby, John’s Seeing Eye dog that had arrived a few weeks after he lost his sight, had helped to a certain extent. Having a dog in the flat had made John smile for the first time since Moriarty’s bomb took his sight, but the flat was too small for Toby to lead him around all the time and- as the therapist had pointed out- it was also too messy. So John had ended up breaking a few plates and cups in a fit of anger, cutting himself on them, and then curling up on the floor and giving up.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock had whispered when he’d found the man that way. He’d knelt down and cleaned up the glass first before attempting to touch John. As he’d expected, he pulled away from him and growled at Sherlock to leave him alone, “You’re injured. Let me clean you up and bandage you.”

“No! Go away, Sherlock! I’ll take care of myself!”

“You aren’t taking care of yourself. You’re lying on the lino _whimpering_.”

“I am _not_ whimpering! I’m just… giving up.”

“Yes, I noticed. Now let me clean you up.”

“I don’t want to be a burden,” John replied, letting Sherlock help him up and sit him in a chair, “I’ll move in with Harry.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what you need right now: to take care of your degenerate sister while trying to figure out how to live without your sight.”

“It might help, having someone to care for,” John reasoned.

“You already care for me, has hit helped?”

“Not really, no, but she’s family. You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

Sherlock didn’t point out that he was partially responsible for John’s loss of sight. If he’d managed to talk Moriarty down. If he hadn’t shot the vest full of explosives in a bid to take the madman out with them. If he had stood just a bit more to the left and sheltered John’s body from the full out blast. If he’d picked somewhere besides a swimming pool with sharp shards of tile to fly into John’s face when the bomb went off. If he’d just helped John to his feet first. Sherlock had walked away with scars from the thigh down. The snipers had fled in a bid to keep their freedom once the bomb had gone off. Moriarty hadn’t walked away at all. John had been blinded and now sported three long white scars on his face and neck. He’d nearly bled out at the scene, and would have if Sherlock hadn’t held his hands down to keep him frantically ripping the shards of tile from his throat, face, arms, hands, and eyes. Pain, fear, and darkness had driven him mad and he’s screamed horrifically until fainting in Sherlock’s arms.

“I’m dealing with it quite well, thank you very much. You’re the one who’s a wreck. Shall I replace the cups with plastic ones?”

“Yeah, sure,” John sighed miserably.

“Where’s that label maker?”

“No idea. You had it last, gods only knows what you did with it.”

Sherlock winced. John couldn’t find things that Sherlock misplaced anymore. Not unless he stumbled on them accidentally- usually because Sherlock left them in a walking path.

“I’m going to get better at this, John,” Sherlock promised, “It’s just a bit of an adjustment is all.”

John laughed bitterly and Sherlock recalled that John was trying to adjust to this as well. At a loss for words and at the limit of his understanding of human reaction, Sherlock did the only thing he could think of. He imitated behavior he’d seen in the past. When someone needed comfort and words weren’t helping, people hugged each other. So Sherlock leaned forward and wrapped his arms around his flatmate and held him tightly. John stiffened up at first, but then let his head fall onto Sherlock’s shoulder and breathed in a deep breath. His hand came up to rest on the back of Sherlock’s arm. They stayed there for a while, Sherlock trying to calculate how many seconds were appropriate, but John drew away before he could decide between the few scenarios he had for comparison.

“Thanks. I’ll just… I think I’ll lie down for a bit.”

“I’ll get to cleaning,” Sherlock replied.

John nodded, but he didn’t seem comforted. Sherlock mentally calculated all the ways for a blind man to silently kill himself in John’s room and came up with six. That was far too many.

Sherlock started cleaning with gusto. For the first time in his life something seemed more important than his collection of newspapers, odds and ends, and various memorabilia. Sherlock threw things out by the bagful and the flat soon resembled a proper flat. Then he located John’s brail-labeler and started spitting out labels and putting them on _everything_ , including his own lab equipment in case John should need to find something amongst the kitchen table. He briefly wondered about moving the lab equipment all together, but John knew not to touch the kitchen table so he left it. Instead he cleaned off all the surfaces in the sitting room so that John didn’t have to worry about those.

When John came down from his nap and made his way into the bathroom, Sherlock waited anxiously in the sitting room until he emerged and then grasped his hand and showed him around the new flat. Without a word Sherlock guided John through every inch of the flat, running his hands along table tops, walls, the edges of furniture, guiding him down to show him where the rugs began and ended, and where his laptop’s ‘designated spot’ was from now on. He guided his fingers to every single label, teaching John new words along the way. It took hours and both their stomachs were growling by the time Sherlock was satisfied that the flat was now livable for John. John called for takeaway and then sat down on the couch in silence.

“Movie?” He suggested.

Sherlock pulled out the last one they’d been watching and popped it in, starting it where they’d left off when Sherlock had to bolt for a case. That was another issue. John had refused to go with Sherlock to cases because he was no longer useful. Sherlock would have to convince him otherwise.

It took them six hours at least to watch a three-hour movie. The reason for this was that Sherlock would pause it to describe what was going on in more detail than sound alone allowed. At first John had argued that he shouldn’t bother, but eventually it became obvious that even Sherlock enjoyed doing this. He would rant and rave about the characters, the director’s flaws, the realism, and even the costumes. John would laugh and goad him on until Sherlock was shouting at the telly in a full out fit.

XXX

Once John agreed to go with him to a crimes scene again, Sherlock was ecstatic. He tugged John along by one arm, citing that Toby would get in the way and possibly contaminate evidence. Once he arrived at the scene he picked a spot for John to stand and set about describing everything in gory detail. John nodded, made faces, made exclamations, and was otherwise his perfect John Watson self.

“This is working perfectly,” Sherlock announced, “I think I’m catching even more than usual since I have to look at everything in more detail in order to describe it to you. It takes a bit longer, but the results are worth the time spent.”

John grinned from ear to ear and then looked almost teary eyed when Lestrade leaned over and whispered something to him. John refused to tell him what he’d said, but Sherlock pried it out of Lestrade later.

“I told him you were better with him around, that you needed him there,” Lestrade informed.

XXX

The first time a woman asked John out on a date he had stammered out a refusal and then hurried away.

“Why did you do that? She’s precisely your type: tall, long hair, thin, educated, and unmarried.”

“I don’t want a pity date, Sherlock,” John had replied as they settled into the cab.

“What makes you think she pities you? I saw no indication of such.”

“Yes, well, I can’t exactly see that, can I?” John replied bitterly.

“I meant no offense,” Sherlock replied irritably.

“I know you didn’t, Sherlock, I’m sorry. It’s just… I don’t want to date anymore.”

“You lost your eyesight, John, not your penis,” Sherlock pointed out, making the cabbie snort in amusement.

John laughed bitterly, but didn’t explain why until a few days later when he suddenly sat down beside Sherlock with an anxious air about him.

“Are we alone?”

“Yes. You know full well I require people to introduce themselves to you the moment they or you enter a room.”

“Right. Thanks for that if I haven’t said it before. I need to talk to you about something embarrassing and I need you not to repeat it to anyone else.”

“Very well.”

“I can’t get it up anymore. Or rarely can.”

“Get what up?” Sherlock asked, wondering why John didn’t just ask him for help lifting something. He’d gotten better at asking for help lately.

“My dick, Sherlock,” John snorted, “I’m impotent, or nearly so. My therapist says it’s because my confidence suffered a nasty blow when I lost my sight. She says it’s not permanent, but she won’t prescribe me pills to counteract it. She says it’s not good for me to rely on them because they’ll become a sort of crutch.”

“That makes sense. I imagine the issue will relieve itself once you start dating again.”

“That’s just it, I don’t want to date. I really don’t, Sherlock. I’m done with it. I had enough trouble balancing you and a girlfriend _before_ losing my eyesight, and I don’t much relish going through that adjustment period with someone again the way I did with you.”

Sherlock nodded at that, then recalled John couldn’t see him and added a verbal agreement, “So what will you do instead? Prostitutes don’t seem to be to your liking.”

“Ah, no, definitely not,” John laughed, “Actually I had an idea I wanted to run past you, but I need you to be honest with me and not fly off the handle.”

“I’m always honest with you. What’s your idea?”

“Everyone already thinks we’re a couple, we have to have lots of physical contact now to guide me around, I’m impotent and you’re… whatever the hell you are… so I was wondering if you’d like to just start letting people think we’re a couple. Even confirming it out loud.”

“Pretend we’re boyfriends so you can fob off women easily?”

“Yes.”

“That seems a bigger crutch than Viagra.”

“A bit, yeah, but I’m not interested in marriage and kids anymore and sex isn’t on my brain, either. We live together, work together, and all but sleep together. It seems a decent solution for both of us. We just… make it a bit more of a commitment.”

“You mean we _do_ become boyfriends, just without sex.”

“Well… yeah.”

Sherlock thought a moment, “If it’s a commitment you’re looking for, and I imagine you are because you want to know you aren’t going to end up alone after adjusting to me already, then marriage seems more sensible than a fake dating scheme.”

“Are you… did you just propose to me?”

“Why not? It’s my understanding most marriages are sex-less anyway,” Sherlock shrugged, “Though for the record I do have a sex drive, but I won’t be expecting you to satisfy it. I consider sex a distraction from The Work.”

John hesitated a moment, licked his lips thoughtfully, and then nodded, “Yeah, okay, but can we not make a big deal of it? Just get it done quietly and let people know?”

“I’d prefer that, actually,” Sherlock agreed, “Shall we share a bedroom? It makes sense in a way. If we both take the upstairs one I can turn the downstairs into a lab- it being closer to the kitchen and bathroom- which would make the kitchen safer for you.”

“You’d be willing to do that for me?” John asked, his tone flattered.

Sherlock smirked, “Anything for my beloved husband.”

XXX

“Which is how the gardener slipped the poison into the pool without causing discoloration or smell and ensured the entire gathering sicken and/or die while pinning the blame on the pool boy. Also, a Justice of the Peace married John and me yesterday. He says we shouldn’t ask for wedding presents because there wasn’t a proper wedding, but I want a new laptop.”

“Sherlock!” John scolded.

“Fine, something less expensive will do. You only get married once, John, or at least only once if you do it correctly.”

“Wait, sorry, run that by me again?” Lestrade asked while Sally gaped at them both.

Sherlock sighed, “Write it _down_ this time. The gardener mixed a solution of-“

“Not _that_! You and John did what?”

“We got married.”

“What happened to John being straight?!” Lestrade stammered.

They’d discussed this in advance, and while Sherlock had insisted that they be honest John had wanted them to lie so Sherlock complied.

“I seduced him,” Sherlock stated, but he must not have delivered it well because the entire group burst out laughing, including John, “What? I have it under good authority that I’m very attractive _and_ persuasive!”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Lestrade chuckled, “You’re pretty enough, and persuasive doesn’t cover it, it’s just that we’ve all thought you were… I dunno… a eunuch or something.”

“A eunuch, _really_ Lestrade? How do you solve a single case without me?” Sherlock scoffed, “I merely had no reason to seek out sexual gratification before John fulfilled my _other_ needs.”

“Do I even want to know what those were?” Lestrade asked, his face a mixture of horrified and amused.

“He keeps me fed, the flat clean- now that I’ve straightened it up enough for him to maintain safely- listens to me, flatters me, helps me deal with the general populace, and is a very talented and giving lover.”

Sally and Lestrade burst out laughing again, and Sherlock scowled at them.

“What did I get wrong?” Sherlock demanded angrily, “John, what did I get wrong?!”

“Nothing, Sherlock, most people just don’t talk about things that… deadpan.”

“Oh. Should I be providing a physical demonstrate of my affection towards you?” Sherlock inquired.

That started another round of laughter, and Sherlock was now bright red and angrily embarrassed. Turning on his heel he stomped over to a chuckling John, snatched him up, and pressed his lips firmly against his own. The laughter died out as John sagged into his arms and Sherlock deepened the kiss with a swipe of his tongue. John’s hand came up to rest on his shoulder while the other clutched his white cane tightly as their tongues slid together slowly until Sherlock deemed the length of the kiss appropriate for a pair of newlyweds. He broke off the kiss with a satisfied sigh, noting John’s glazed look behind his sunglasses that had little to do with the damaged corneas he sported, and turned to face the group with a smug smile. They were all well silenced and gaping at him.

“Come along, John, I’m sure you’d like to get started dictating this case into your blog. You always love the ones I solve in less than an hour the most.”

John was silent during the ride back, but Sherlock was unconcerned. They’d spent their first night tucked into the same bed last night and it had been perfectly comfortable. He doubted John had any sort of homophobic tendencies to make this difficult, even if he did insist he was heterosexual. Still, he’d seemed just a bit more than shocked back there. It was quite possible he’d been aroused.

“You know, John, it’s perfectly understandable if the definition of your sexuality is called into question at this point,” Sherlock pointed out, “After all, you no longer rely on sight to pick your potential mate. While someone blind from birth would not be hindered by such a thing, the fact that you previously chose your dates based on physical features might now be obsolete to you. It would make sense that you would gravitate towards someone you trust and admire as a sexual partner, rather than choosing someone you would have found attractive before losing your eyesight.”

“Yeah, that works,” John nodded, “That’s what I’ll tell Greg when he asks me later.”

“You think he will?”

“Yeah, he’ll want to know what’s going on in my head, though I doubt he’ll want details. He’s probably worried that we’ve jumped into this too fast or that you’re taking advantage of me or something.”

“That sounds like Lestrade,” Sherlock nodded, “But I was referring to your _own_ definition of sexuality, not our cover story.”

“Oh. Um. I’m not sure I follow.”

“You seemed aroused back there. I’m informing you that there’s nothing wrong with you re-defining your sexual preferences based on your new outlook on life. I’d hate for you to have some sort of sexual identity crisis at this stage in the game.”

John didn’t reply and was silent all the way home, up into the flat, and for a few more hours as he simply sat on the couch and thought. Sherlock worked around him, as he usually did, occasionally asking John to fetch him something or pestering him for the sake of getting a response. John’s replies, when he made them, were monosyllabic and generally neutral. Finally Sherlock sighed in frustration and set about playing his violin instead of bothering with his unresponsive flatmate-turned-husband.

That night John climbed into bed several hours before Sherlock, as usual, but was still awake when Sherlock joined him. Sherlock changed and slipped comfortably into bed. He wasn’t sure how they’d come to the decision to share Sherlock’s large bed rather than get two small ones. It seemed to have happened naturally, and this supported Sherlock’s theory that John wasn’t as secure in his sexuality as he’d originally thought.

“You’re right, of course,” John stated softly.

“Of course I am,” Sherlock agreed, yawning widely.

“So what now? Do your really feel sex will interfere with your work? If you want it, I’m not even sure I can get it up. Will you be upset if I can’t? I’ve thought about it a bit now and I don’t think I can bottom. Will you let me top or will we just not have anal sex? Have you been tested lately? I’m clean, by the way. I also wonder-“

“John. Stop. It’s three in the morning. Go to sleep. Everything is going to be fine.”

“Right. Yeah. Thanks,” John agreed, and rolled over and hesitantly placed a hand on Sherlock’s hip.

Sherlock scooted backwards to show his comfort with the gesture and John soon molded himself against him. John sighed contentedly and dropped off to sleep almost immediately. Sherlock tried not to laugh hard enough to wake him, but couldn’t hold back a chuckle nonetheless. Eventually he too drifted off to sleep. When he awoke the next morning it was to the firm prod of John’s morning wood as he sleepily rolled his hips against Sherlock’s backside. A glance over his shoulder showed the former doctor was sound asleep still. Sherlock reached down and cupped him gently through his sleep pants, resulting in a low moan and more eager thrusting.

Sherlock removed his hand since he wasn’t entirely sure that John was alright with this development. Instead, he made an effort to wake him.

“John? John! Wake up. You’ve got an erection.”

“Oh? What? Sorry,” John grunted, and rolled over onto his belly to rub himself against the mattress, still not quite awake.

“I wasn’t complaining,” Sherlock nudged him with his foot, “I want to know if you would consent to having sex with me.”

“M’not gonna bottom.”

“That’s fine,” Sherlock snorted, “it need not be penetrative. I’ve not done this in ages, but I’m fairly certain you have to stop humping the mattress first.

“M’kay,” John sighed, and rolled onto his back to stroke himself with his hand.

Sherlock sighed and gave up, getting out of bed and heading for the kitchen for a morning cuppa. He had a bit of morning wood himself, but it was easily ignored until it went away. A good hour later John staggered into the bathroom and ran the shower. When he came back out again Sherlock welcomed him into the kitchen with a quick kiss against his cheek. John blushed but didn’t pull away.

“Morning.”

“Morning. I’ve gotten the tea ready for us. Would you like a cup?”

“Sorry, but I’m more in the mood for coffee this morning. I had the strangest dreams last night.”

“I noticed,” Sherlock snorted, “You were rather aroused this morning.”

John groaned and rubbed his hands over his face as he sank down in his chair, “Well that’s a bit embarrassing. Sorry. Was it weird?”

“Not in the least. Invigorating, actually, but you weren’t up for reciprocating so I left you to it.”

“Oh,” John replied, blinking in confusion, “Should I… do you want me too…”

“Only if you want to. As I’ve said before, I can go without.”

“Right. Well. Maybe another time, then? When I’m more used to this?”

“As you wish,” Sherlock nodded, and flipped on the coffee maker, “Toast? I didn’t feel like cooking.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll make eggs. You want some?”

“I’m all set,” Sherlock declined.

XXX

It was actually a few weeks before John got up the nerve to initiate anything with Sherlock. They were watching a movie which had just descended into one of those repulsive kissing scenes when John slowly reached out, cupped Sherlock’s cheek, and drew him into an awkward kiss. Sherlock responded amicably and they were soon snogging hungrily, the movie forgotten. When John pushed at Sherlock’s shoulders he readily slid down on the couch and John carefully climbed between his spread thighs. Sherlock hadn’t expected John to go further than kissing the first go-round, but they were soon rutting against each other frantically. Sherlock found himself grasping John’s buttocks and moaning deeply as the man gasped and bucked against him.

“Oh, gods, this shouldn’t feel so good,” John panted.

Sherlock, for once, couldn’t think of a reply because he was surprised that it felt as amazing as it did as well. He’d certainly done this before in Uni, but it hadn’t had the heat behind it that it did now. He found himself wanting to touch _more_ of John, so he pushed his hands inside his trousers to cup his bare bottom. John cried out and pulled away. Sherlock thought he’d gone to far for a moment, but his husband was tugging his trousers open and pulling them and his pants down before fumbling with Sherlock’s. Sherlock lifted his hips to help ease them down and then John was hesitantly wrapping his hand around him.

“Same as you’ve got,” Sherlock soothed when John seemed ready to bolt, “Nothing to be afraid of.”

“Yeah. Right. Nothing to be afraid of. Just me and my husband doing what spouses do, yeah?”

“Yes,” Sherlock gasped, though it was more from pleasure than agreement as John’s hand made a firm stroke up his cock and then back down again. His cockhead was fully drawn out of the foreskin now and was leaking copiously.

Sherlock remembered John only when he felt the man’s neglected cock drip onto his thigh. He wrapped one long-fingered hand around John’s shaft, drawing a gasp from him, and stroked him firmly. They matched rhythm and thrust into each other’s hands eagerly. Sherlock felt John swelling in his grasp and moaned at the thought of bringing his best friend such pleasure.

“Sherlock, I’m close!” John gasped.

“Yes, do it,” Sherlock breathed, and moaned when John’s hot come spurted across his body.

John’s hand faltered as he climaxed, but soon picked up a faster rhythm as the former military man gained confidence after his own pleasure had been obtained. He stroked Sherlock deftly and with vigor until Sherlock came with a grunt beneath him, gasping as John milked his cock expertly. Sherlock sagged into the couch cushions, sighing in bliss as the waves of rewarding chemicals washed over him.

“That was most satisfying,” Sherlock purred.

John chuckled, “Glad you enjoyed it. I did, too. This… this isn’t as awkward as I thought it would be. We soft of… fit.”

“Of course we do,” Sherlock scoffed.

XXX

“Now remember, Mr. Holmes, your husband may not have his vision fully restored. There was a great deal of scar tissue. We can’t even guarantee he’ll see at all. At this point, we’re certain the donor cornea wasn’t rejected, but that’s not the end of our hurdles.”

“I understand,” Sherlock replied, standing by John’s hospital bed and clasping his hand tightly.

The doctor dimmed the lights, stepped forward, and began unwrapping the last of John’s bandages. Some had been removed yesterday, just enough to let light filter through, but John hadn’t been sure if he’d seen anything. He kept saying he did one moment and then didn’t the next. He’d been without sight for several years now; it was entirely possible that his brain didn’t remember how to see anymore.

The last of the bandages came off and John was told to open his eyes only when he felt comfortable. Sherlock pulled up a chair, content to wait for days if he must, but John took a deep breath and opened his new brown eyes. Sherlock waited while they darted about the room before finally lighting on Sherlock. John smiled warmly and Sherlock returned it.

“You’re gorgeous,” John whispered.

Sherlock pressed a kiss to the back of his husband’s hand.

XXX

John was still legally blind in both eyes, but he had some vision on his own and a thick pair of glasses helped that along. He could read books again, something he had sorely missed, and with the help of the gigantic TV Sherlock had bought him for Christmas he was able to watch movies as well. He wouldn’t be able to practice medicine the way he had before, but he worked at a practice as a locum and was once again kneeling over corpses giving Sherlock as much assistance as he could render. Toby stayed on as a pet and to help John out when he needed to go to unfamiliar areas since he was severely nearsighted.

Sherlock had worried at first that John’s restored sight would mean a restored interest in the opposite sex, but once John cottoned on to his thought (it took six rather nasty arguments before Sherlock admitted to his ‘sentiment’) John was quick to reassure him that he loved him and wouldn’t be ending their marriage or relationship for ‘a nice pair of tits’. That didn’t stop him from _looking_ on occasion, but it became a running gag with Sherlock and the rest of the Yard. Whenever one of them met an attractive woman they would go to ridiculous lengths to get her close enough to John to distract him into glancing at her cleavage. Sherlock took it so far once that he had a poor woman- the spouse of a victim no less- convinced the mole on her chest was cancerous before John broke down and explained his husband was just being a tit. The poor choice of phrasing got them both slapped and Lestrade had to laughingly escort them off the crime scene.

When Sherlock eventually retired from detective work he took to the countryside to raise bees with John by his side. The country air proved good for the retired pair and they took to sitting comfortably on the porch, hand in hand, soothed by the drone of nearby beehives outside their screened in porch. John tended the gardens that kept their bees from wandering too far off and starting homes elsewhere, raising a broad spectrum of flowers and berry bushes to keep them sated. He told Sherlock often that digging in the backyard reminded him of surgery, but that it was also the exact opposite.

“When I’m wrist deep in a person I have this intense calm over me, because the entire world narrows to that person’s insides and my hands. Well, it’s been decades since I performed a surgery, but my body and mind still _remembers_ it even if my eyesight’s too poor to do it. When I’m wrist deep in soil it’s the same thing. Everything narrows down and focuses to what I’m doing in that little bit of area in front of me. My mind focuses, my eyes seem to work better, and I swear to you I can’t even hear you talk I’m so intent on what I’m doing.”

“I’ve noticed that last bit,” Sherlock sulked.

“It keeps your damned bees happy, so don’t complain,” John chided.

Sherlock smiled, “Why would I complain about something that keeps my husband happy?”

They shared a soft kiss and went in to bed, climbing the creaking stairs of their little farmhouse and huddling under the hand-made quilt that adorned their bed. Wrapped tightly around each other and indulging in slow kisses until they drifted off, neither could imagine a more perfect existence. They were both old and grey, but John’s imperfect eyes still saw Sherlock as he was before the bomb went off all those decades ago; thin, tall, dark haired, smooth skinned, pale eyes flashing as he glanced aside for John’s permission to blow them all to hell rather than capitulate to a madman. Sherlock for his part loved every inch of John, from his wider waistline, to his gnarled, usually dirt-covered knuckles. The bees and flowers were their children; John’s books on the adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock’s book on the habits of bees were their legacy.

They were at peace and remained so till the end of their days.

 

A/N: I think I mangled that ending- it was more than a bit gaggable- and I admit to knowing very little of medical procedure though I did a bit of research. Hopefully this wasn’t too intolerable a read.


End file.
